There's Pain in Laughter
by Penelope Grace
Summary: In which Shawn Spencer's past as an undercover cop in Chicago comes back to haunt him one more time. When Shawn doesn't have pineapples, he has lemon - P2 of 58 Jobs and Counting
1. Prologue

**A/N: Now who has the bright idea of doing this? Meeeeeeee. Who do I have to blame? Meeeeeeee.**

I.

 _October 10, 1989_

Looking straight ahead at the road, Shawn Spencer sits in the backseat of his father's patrol car with his best friend, Gus. Typically, his father does not pick them up from school, but because Gus' mother is busy with Joy's doctor appointment and Henry Spencer does not trust his son after the Great Ice Cream Fight Fiasco that happened two months ago at the local ice cream shop, Officer Spencer is slowly driving local through the suburban streets of Santa Barbara.

"Dad, we can walk from school. It is only a mile and a half away," whines Shawn, eyes staring at the back of his father's head.

"No, Shawn," replied the police officer, his eyes shielded by a pair of aviator sunglasses. He gently brakes the squad car before the crosswalk. "You and Gus really got yourself into trouble by starting that food fight."

"I _didn't_ start it," protest Gus. "Shawn pulled me into it!"

"Did not!" He kicks Gus' shin.

"Ow!" Gus aims for Shawn's foot and hits his ankle instead.

Before Henry Spencer could roll his eyes in exasperation and say shut up to both of the troublemaking children, the police radio switches on with static. Through the speaker, Dispatch says, "All units, 10-16 at 1673 Holmes Avenue."

Henry curses under his breath. He grips the steering wheel and makes a hard fast right turn that would make any observing police officer turn their lights on to pull over the car. "I can't believe this!" He grabs the radio and hits a button. "This is Unit 432, copy."

He parks the patrol car across the street of the house in question and clicks off his seatbelt. Glaring at the boys in the back, he barks, "Stay here." He takes care to lock the patrol car behind him, his hand on his holster as he crosses the street.

"What's 10-16?" asks Gus.

Shawn, who has remembered all of the Santa Barbara police codes thanks to his father, answers, "Domestic violence." Both boys briefly glance at the arriving ambulance and the paramedics rushing out of the ambulance with a stretcher and running into the house.

"Hey, you still got that pencil?"

Shawn grins, pulling out a pencil pouch from his backpack. "I can't believe no one saw this." He yanks out a single tiny red pencil and hands it to Gus. "It is so funny."

"What is that?" cuts in Shawn's father, glare permanently etched into his eyes. Both boys jump in shock, and Gus quickly wraps the pencil into the fist of his hand. Henry pulls the back door open and reaches past Shawn. "Gus, give me that."

Gus unfolds his hand and passes the pencil.

Henry Spencer closely examine the red pencil, his eyes shocked and then furious. "Where did you get this?" His voice steadily carries an order, a question not meant to be ignored or unanswered. He shakes the pencil with no amusement.

The boys exchange a look, smiles facing completely.

Gus is the first to fess up to no one's surprise. "Red Ribbon Week."

The officer suddenly chokes on something in his throat. " _What?_ " He turns to his son. "Shawn, can you tell me why does this pencil say, 'Do drugs,' on it?" He turns the pencil towards the boys so they can easily see the white-printed words of "Do Drugs" on the body of the tiny pencil about the length of a pinkie.

"Well, it used to say, 'Red Ribbon Week, Don't do drugs.' But Gus and I kept sharpening using it said that."

"I wasn't involved," protests Gus. "It was just you sharpening the pencil."

"Was not!"

The blonde officer waves the boys' argument and little comments away. The pencil disappears into his pocket. "Hold it. You are saying this is the Red Ribbon Week pencil?"

The two children nod slowly.

"I can't believe this." He sighs, straightening to look upwards at the sky in a desperate plea. He bends down and points to the ambulance. "Do either of you know what happened in there?"

"Someone hit their wife," guesses Gus.

Officer Spencer tilts his head in thought. "Not a bad guess, Gus. But full story here. Neighbors called when they heard a loud argument. I was first on the scene and found that the wife has overdosed on cocaine while the husband was passed out drunk on the couch. Her pulse was so weak I thought she was dead. Paramedics came to take her and her husband to the hospital. But the point is that drugs ruin people's lives."

The two boys exchange a look. Shawn's eyes widen. It's truly the first time his father actually elaborated on a crime scene, which is to say. . . This is a very _big_ deal.

He shakes his head and points at the house, arm stretching out to gesture to the neighborhood in full. "Look at their house. Look at their neighbors. Do you see something different about them?"

"Their house is crap?"

"Yes, Shawn. But what else?"

Sitting taller and tapping into his analytical side, Shawn scans the street with a sharp, critical eye. The neighbors are out and watching the other police officers and some people in professional wear entering the house. A faded oak door leads the way into the house. They even have a bay window unlike other houses. But their house has tall, weaving grass stretching wildly into the sky. Their tree grows into the other neighbor's front yard, and the rose bushes point to random directions.

He finds the correct answer. "Their house used to be maintained. Like all the other perfect houses on the street."

"Exactly." Henry Spencer raises the pencil in front of their eyes. "One more thing. You probably don't know the significance of Red Ribbon Week. DEA stands for Drug Enforcement Agency, which is dedicated to stopping illegal drugs. A DEA agent died trying to stop people like you two from getting ahold of dangerous drugs and destroying your lives. This is not an event to make fun of."


	2. It's Murder!

II.

 _July 18, 2012_

As usual, when there is a suspicious death, Gus and Shawn show up to the scene. Casually eating dried pineapple slices out of a mini bag, they walk around. Shawn, doing his usual scan of the crime scene while chattering with Gus. He notes the neatness of the apartment on the second floor, the way things have a set, organized place to be. No clutter, no random junk randomly floating around in odd places. It is even decorated with vases of colorful flowers, cute little cactuses, and museum prints of famous pretentious paintings.

"Wait. Hang on a second. Those are the most hideous paintings I have ever seen," comments Shawn, indeed pointing at the strange, surreal prints on the wall with his free pinkie finger not busy with pineapple slices. "There are like clocks all over this painting. Why do you need so many melted clocks?"

"Shawn, those are surrealism art."

"Look at that one." He gestures to a detailed print of many buildings and strange figures all over it next to the print of a melted clocks. "Gus, it's raining men!"

Gus rolls his eyes. "That's a print of _Golconda._ Painted by Rene Magritte."

Shawn pauses, shaking his head in disapproval at his best friend. "Gus, at least _pretend_ you don't know this stuff." Then he wanders into the next room, Gus slowly following behind him. Gus can tell from the chatter where the dead body is at.

A warm, welcoming living room resides in perfect condition. The victim herself, dark haired and supine, is found right by the coffee table, resting on the floor with a needle and syringe sticking out of her left arm. Her right arm folds over her stomach, and her eyes are closed as if she's only sleeping despite the blueness of her skin. Shawn's eyes zoom in on the injection site. Her skin seems to be in good condition, not dissimilar to a person who isn't a drug addict. There is some pure white substance still left in the needle.

"McNab," says Lassie, already guzzling away his morning coffee. He blinks several times at the body, as if not quite seeing her. "What you got for me?"

"Victim is Kristy Sanchez. Twenty-eight years old. Works at St. George Hospital as a nurse and studying part-time to become a registered nurse. Cause of death appears to be an overdose. Neighbor found her two hours ago when he came over to drop some pie."

"Pie? What kind of pie?" questions Shawn.

"Blueberry," answers Officer McNab, his finger underlining some words in his notepad. He grins at the two consultants for the Santa Barbara Police Department with a wave.

Gus and Shawn nod in appreciation at each other. Blueberry pie, not bad.

Appearing far more awake and alert compared to her senior partner, Detective Juliet O'Hara scribbles away at her notepad. "Moving on from the type of pie. A nurse dying of a drug overdose doesn't seem likely." There's a touch of disbelief in her voice.

Shawn and Gus circles around the island of couch and coffee table, following the space near the walls and windows. Gus sniffs once. And then twice. Shawn shakes his head at the less surreal but still equally pretentious paintings hanging near the windows.

"It has happened before, O'Hara."

Gus sniffs one more time. Then his eyes widen in disgust.

"Gus?"

"Dude." He slaps Shawn's shoulder. "Do you smell that?"

Shawn takes a careful sniff as well. He furrows his eyebrows. "Okay, I think I smell something too." He takes a few steps back and the rancid smell has lessen somewhat. His eyes narrow at a dark spot on the gray carpet, wedged between the wall and floor. It's in front of a closed window, and Shawn moves forward for a better look.

It kind of looks like a blob of dirt, he muses. Odd. About the size of a small pebble, perhaps. For an apartment that is incredibly clean, it seems unlikely to have a black spot that large enough to be missed.

"Locked doors, closed windows, secure house. I say this nurse has—"

"Ehntttt!" Shawn cuts in, mimicking a buzzer. "This was murder."

Lassie glares at him, his coffee cup tightening under his grip.

xPx

"Dude, do you smell that? I can totally smell it now." Shawn pauses in his step, the breeze rolling by him with a gentle ease. The two detectives from Psych Agency turn their heads to the wind at the same time.

Gus takes only a gentle whiff. "It's cow manure. Used for the grass. Makes it grow better."

"Smell is coming from the back."

They go around the back, and Shawn curses, lifting his foot. A dark brown-black spot stands out on his sole. "Gus, I think I stepped on it." A simple scan of the walkway sends Shawn's gut flipping with disgust. "Wow, a dog kept running and forth on the patches of grass and cow poop. Got it all over the sidewalk. But. . ." Shawn looks up, eyes squinting through the windows.

Gus makes tentative steps in the clean part of sidewalk. "What are you doing, Shawn?"

He points to a window on the second floor. He can recognize that pretentious print of a fruit bowl anywhere. "That's the living room window." His eyes zoom in on the rusty drain pipe right by it. He nods towards the pipes. "Hey, Gus, why don't you try climbing the pipes?"

"I'm not climbing it, Shawn!"

"Come on. It's to solve a murder." He squints at the part where the pipe makes a turn. There's something on there. It kind of looks like a blob of. . . Dirt. The same dirt he saw in Kristy's apartment underneath the window. The same dirt all over this sidewalk and grass, making it nearly impossible to not step in it. That piece of dirt is ten feet up. No way it could have flew up there.

"Still not doing it! You see how old it looks?"

He looks at the neighbor's windows. Shut tight. Just like all the other windows near these patches of treated grass. "Let's get out of here."

"Finally. I thought my nose was going to fall off." Gus' feet slides a little forward. "Damn it! I stepped in it!'


	3. A Piece of That Action

III.

 _July 18, 2012_

"I have to say, Gus, that the new Chinese restaurant on 23rd street is the _bomb._ " Shawn casually shoves lo mein into his mouth. His somewhat-clean feet rests on the corner of Lassie's desk. He has already pick through his files and other piles. Seems like there's a slowdown in home burglaries coming across Lassie's desk.

"Agreed. I think my taste buds have died and gone to heaven." Gus takes a large bite out of kung pao chicken, making appreciative noises.

"What are you two nitwits doing here?" cuts in the Head Detective, horror in his eyes as he catches sight of Shawn's feet. "Get out of my chair. Put your feet down, Spencer!"

"Lassie-face!" Grinning mischievously, Shawn drops his feet to the floor. "We're on the murder case too." Then he looks around Lassie. Gus follows his lead.

"Get—" He squeezes his fist. He raises a finger at the two of them. "I'm not going to fall for that."

"Carlton, in my office now!" shouts Chief Karen Vick behind the Head Detective. Her voice softens. "Shawn, Gus, get O'Hara and join us."

"Sweet, we're invited." Shawn picks up his chopsticks and lo mein box, tossing it into Lassie's wastebasket. He spins around in Lassie's desk chair once before ambling over to her desk. "Jules! We're needed!" He waves for her attention and then points to the Chief's office.

She nods, holding her palm out. _Give me a second_ , she mouths. "Sorry, I'll have to call you back, Mom."

The four of them gather in the Chief's office, doors shut tight. "So you have all heard about the overdose of Kristy Sanchez," says the Chief of Police, sitting behind her desk. "We need all hands on deck for this case, and it _must_ be solved. Determined if it is accidental overdose or murder."

"And it is murder," whispered Shawn.

Lassie rolls his eyes and turns back to his boss. "With all due respect, why does it feel like we are under pressure?" asks the Head Detective.

"Because I have the FBI calling about Sanchez's death and someone from the DEA curious about this as well. They have not requested the case." She poignantly pauses, her eyes examining all four of them. "Yet. But if this is a murder like what Mr. Spencer has sense, then we need to get to the bottom of this before they pull rank. Understood?"

"Did they happen to say why they were looking into this case?" Jules asks.

"No."


	4. We Got a Link!

IV.

 _July 19, 2012_

"This is bad," comments Detective Lassiter, sipping at his sweetened coffee. He and his partner stand near another OD female with a needle and syringe sticking out of her arm. There appears to be white substance in syringe again, albeit in very low quantities. She's on the floor of her bathroom, completely dead for at least six hours. Her skin possesses a scary shade of blue from lack of oxygen.

This puts her time of death around three in the morning. McNab has already taken the roommate down to the station for further questioning, but. . . This death looks far too similar to the death of Kristy Sanchez. The two police detectives can see that clearly.

"Shawn!" exclaims Jules, eyes widening at the psychic detective. "What are you wearing? It's like a hundred degrees."

Shawn, wearing a thick Christmas sweater, says, "I refuse to let people be blinded by the horror of the shirt I'm wearing."

Gus, standing a little farther away from the dead body, rolls his eyes. "His dad made him put on a Hawaiian shirt for a bowling game."

The pseudo-psychic detective leans at the dead girl sprawled over the tile floor. Darn Lassie blocks a good portion of the view. He notices the injection site. No way she is a druggie. Her skin is too clear for that. Lack of injection scars. Then he looks for the point of entry. Windows are locked from the inside, but. . . He wanders back to the front door and notices slight scratch marks around the deadbolt lock. Bump key.

Okay, intruder must have came from front door. The other lock strangely does not possess any telltale scratches of lock picking. That's something worth asking about.

He heads back to Gus and the two detectives, mostly zoning out their conversation about the identity and information about the girl. Alyssa Swanson, 36 years old.

Their conversation fades away completely once Shawn catches the sight of her face. Black hair spread around her head like a halo. The nosepiece must have been a new development. Maybe pierced a few years ago. But it is her beauty mark right above her left eyebrow that immediately pulls Shawn back in time.

" _Mi hermana," said Miguel Sanchez, his arm wrapping around a beautiful girl in her twenties in a classic evening dress. She's dressed like a violet rose. He unwraps his grip around her and curses when his jacket parts slightly to reveal his gun holster._

 _Her black hair sways behind her back. Then her lips pull into a wide smile upon seeing the round table made up of the inner members. "Hello, my name is Alyssa Sanchez." His eyes draw themselves to the beauty mark above her eyebrow._

 _Shawn grips his cane, his finger never removing from the hidden button. "You are very lovely, Alyssa." He tips his hat to her._

" _You hit on my sister, and I'll—"_

 _Shawn scoffs, casually putting his cigar to his lip. He puffs a cloud of smoke away from their faces. "It is a sin to not acknowledge her beauty."_

 _Alyssa nods at him, her cheeks tinted with blood. Her hands nervously fidget in front of the white fabrics of her intricate evening dress. "Thank you, Senor."_

He only has met her for about an hour at that party. Then he remember the first OD victim. Kristy Sanchez.

" _The dress is made of pieces of silk. Puzzles forming to make a whole," he whispers, hiding with Alyssa in the dark corner of the Sanchez Estate._

" _Thank you. My cousin, Kristy, put it together for me. She did all the work. I am only the shape that gives it form."_

Holy crap. Shawn shouts, "This is bad!"

"I don't understand how CSI coming by to take more samples is a bad thing," says Gus, looking strangely at Shawn.

He puts his hand to his temple. "The two victims. Kristy Sanchez and Alyssa Swanson have a link."

"Alright." Lassie rolls his eyes. He gestures Shawn to go on, sarcasm in his movements. "What are the spirits telling you?"

"Kristy Sanchez is the cousin of Jose and Miguel Sanchez. Alyssa Swanson used to be called Alyssa Sanchez. She is the older sister of the Sanchez brothers."

"Sanchez brothers, why do they sound familiar?" asks Jules, her eyes closed.

"Cause they're inner members of Blood Brotherhood," realizes Lassie, his eyes widening in shock.

"Which is a Mexican Cartel!" finishes Jules, throwing her hand at Lassie. He snaps his finger, clearly as surprised as she is.

"Which is why the DEA and the FBI were calling about Kristy Sanchez case," adds Gus. Both detectives of the SBPD turn to Gus.

"Damn," the three of them murmur collectively.


	5. New Players

V.

 _July 19, 2012_

"Mr. Spencer, excellent work on the psychic investigations. The two victims are indeed relatives of the Sanchez brothers," says Chief Vick, hands folded on her desk. "However, I'm afraid that the FBI or the DEA is going to commandeer these cases. They are set—"

The office door open. A sharp blonde woman in fitted pantsuit comes in with an Asian man also in a suit at her heels. Shawn is taken aback by his thick rim-horned glasses.

Back straight and oozing confidence, the blonde starts, "I hope I am not interrupting, but I am Special Agent Kate Jones from the FBI working on the Blood Brotherhood case." She turns her head to the guy standing beside her.

"I am Patrick Zhang from the DEA."

"I also have a partner finding parking. He is Special Agent Conner West and will be coming in shortly." She holds out her hand to Chief Vick, who shakes it firmly. "Thank you for having us."

"Of course," replies Chief Vick, her smile a little too sweet to be genuine. "Perhaps, it would be best if we all go to conference room C to brief everyone of the details."

"Excellent," the FBI agent agrees, glancing at her watch. "I'll be ready with the presentation in ten minutes."

Examining his own watch and then straightening his suit jacket, Patrick Zhang adds, "It goes without saying that this information needs to be kept in a small group."

xPx

The group gathers in the conference room, closing the blinds and such while Agent Jones loads a presentation onto the TV. Shawn does not miss the appreciative glances Gus throws at Agent Jones when she is not looking. He realizes that Agent Kate Jones is indeed an attractive woman with a proportional bust size and a curved behind, but. . .

"Seriously, Gus?" He elbows his best friend.

"She—"

The door burst open. A stocky man with sweaty hair in a wrinkled suit hurries in and slams the door behind him. "Sorry, I'm late, Jones! I couldn't figure out parking, and then I saw there was a meter sign, but I couldn't figure out how to get the meter to work and I think—" The speed at which his mouth moves distracts Shawn from listening.

Hair flipping away, Agent Jones spins around and raises her hand. "Conner, breathe."

"Okay, okay," he instantly nods, actually overnodding in a sort of desperate need to please. He releases a fast breath and inhales too quickly.

Chief Vick motions, "We are all here then?"

Agent Jones hesitates at that question. She gives a nervous smile at the group. "Well, I am not certain if the detective from the Chicago Police Department will be here today. He was working on this case way before any of us were. He said he will be arriving in Santa Barbara by tomorrow morning."

Shawn puts his finger to his head. "Any chance it is. . . I sense his name starts with an s."

"Yeah, Sam! Sam Mosby." Agent Jones tilts her head curiously at him. "How did you know that?"

"I'm psychic detective Shawn Spencer," he introduces himself, then pointing to his best friend. "And this is my partner Tony Hubbard."

Her head tilts the other way. Her red fingernail comes up to scratch her chin. "As in the black guy Denzel Washington played in _The Siege_?"

"No, you're thinking of Bruce Willis."

"Bruce Willis is not black, Shawn."

"Enough!" Carlton gestures at the TV bearing the FBI symbol. "Please start the presentation, Agent Jones. A word of advice, interrupt them before they go on an useless endeavor into nonsense."

"Okay, noted then." She hits a button on her pointer. "Blood Brotherhood started in the 1970s somewhere in the southeast region of Mexico." She waves a red pointer at a map. "Started by Tony Serrano who led the cartel until the 1990s when it was passed to his son, Antonio Serrano."

"Question!" Shawn's hand shoots up in the air. "Did Tony happen to be short for Antonio? Ow! Lassie!" He furiously rub his rib, glaring at the Head Detective.

"No, it was just Tony," she answers, not missing a beat. "Moving on now. The cartel began moving drugs into the US since the late 70s. A huge expansion of the cartel happened in the early 80s, and most experts would agree that the cartel was in its prime from the late 80s to the late 90s until it fell apart."

"So why did it fall apart?" question Gus, shockingly using his best Blue Steel look at the FBI agent.

"Gus, seriously?"

The pretty Kate Jones completely miss Gus' look, instead looking at her notes. "In the 90s, there were sixteen members in inner circle of the Blood Brotherhood. A single inner circle member controls one function of the cartel like supplying the drugs or providing security." She skips ahead a few slides to show mugshots and various pictures of the inner circle. "In 2002, eleven members were found dead by unnatural causes. Most of them were shot, execution style. It was presumed to be a gang hit."

"So there is five left today," says Gus.

She pulls up a slide labeled inner members. "Not exactly certain of that. The FBI is certain that these four are still alive. Miguel and Jose Sanchez. Antonio Serrano. Alejandro Martinez." She circles around each face with her red pointer light. All of them are Mexican of various facial features, but it is the dead look in their eyes that unite them. "We are uncertain whether or not Ricardo Castro is alive, however. He was last seen entering a shipping warehouse along with Sanchez brothers and an undercover police detective whose cover was blown. Detective Mosby was that detective."

"So Detective Mosby and the Sanchez brothers came out alive, but this Castro did not?"

"The warehouse was blown by a lot of C4. We found many bodies, some that were impossible to identify, but we are uncertain if he is among there," answers Agent Jones, nodding at Detective Lassiter. She circles around the blurry face of Ricardo Castro. "Of course, there are rumors that Castro started anew in Mexico, Switzerland, Canada. . . The list goes on."

"Wow, he has the worst hair job in the world," comments Shawn, interrupting. "Shoulder length wildness with knots. He was a savage."

"In character, he was a savage, but reports say that he had nice manners until he didn't like you," says Agent Jones. "He once tied a man seventy feet above ground to shake some information out of him. Every information he got, he would allow the victim have a few feet closer to the ground. He doesn't like you or feel you have wrong him in some way? He drops you from thirty feet and breaks every bone in your body without killing you."

Shawn closely watches the other detectives as Jules' mouth drops in shock and Gus turns a little sick. Patrick from the DEA seems calm, as if he has heard it all before. Chief Vick absorbs all the information thrown at her. And Conner is patting at the sweat on his forehead and pulling at his skewed tie, still winded from his run. Shawn glances curiously at Agent West's shaking hand.

Lassie, however, nods, as if he expected this. "He was an inner circle member. What did he do?"

"Enforcer. Does in-house security. Sniffed out all the traitors and snitches." She points to the other members of the inner circle. "Miguel Sanchez handles production. His brother is in charge of smuggling the drugs into the US. Antonio Serrano, as I told you before, leads the cartel and handles drug deals with the gangs. Alejandro Martinez does their accounting."

She clicks to the next slide, which is a graph estimating the amount of drugs they shipped in. "In 2002, the cartel took a huge blow when eleven inner circle members died along with a few dozen of their trusted associates. Most of the federal agencies expected the remaining of the cartel to be fought over or absorbed into other rival cartels. But we did not know until 2008 when some of their signature cocaine was confiscated that Serrano has regained some control. The Sanchez brothers and Martinez came out of hiding. These photos were obtained from airports and security cameras." She flips through a few more slides of their more recent pictures.

"Who are their major enemies? Who most likely killed the eleven members back in 2002?" inquires Jules, her pen ghosting over her notepad.

"The Eagle Syndicate in Santa Barbara caused the most trouble for the Blood Brotherhood during that time. The eleven inner members were killed in Perry Mansion on the hills close to Los Angeles. Large area of land. Nearest neighbor is a mile away. Neighbors heard nothing." She does not flip to another slide. "The Syndicate is an alternative crime organization appealing itself to youth. There is no particular ethnic group connected to it, although early in its history, the Sicilian Mob briefly helped with its creation."

"Their most popular choice of drug, both using and dealing, is heroin," informs Patrick, who is so quiet that almost everyone forgot his presence. "It's their signature drug. Similar to how cocaine is to Blood Brotherhood. Preliminary toxicology report on Kristy Sanchez and Alyssa Sanchez suggests she was pumped full of heroin before she died."

Chief Vick fills in the blanks. "You think there is a gang war."


	6. Secrets

VI.

 _July 19, 2012_

Back in the Psych office, Shawn begin closing all the blinds once Gus enters with pineapple smoothie. It's going to be sunset in a few hours and then it'll the perfect time to poke around a few things before daylight.

"Shawn, what are you doing?"

His eyes light up. "Hand me my smoothie."

"But why do you need to close all the blinds?" He gives Shawn a confused and suspicious glance.

"Gangsters," Shawn stage-whispers.

Gus rolls his eyes. "They don't do it like this." He sets the smoothie down on Shawn's desk and moves to his own office chair.

Shawn flips the switch for the ceiling light bulbs. Dropping his ridiculous grin, he seriously asks, "Gus, how many jobs did I take before this psychic detective gig?"

"Fifty-seven," Gus replied without thinking, taking a sip out of his smoothie. He knows the number too well every time Henry Spencer starts complaining about how son never actually finishes anything or sticks to one thing. "What about it?"

Shawn pauses. Then he dives in, his words coming out sharp. "Five of those jobs were illegal. Another one was probably breaking international law."

Gus' eyes widen, letting go of his smoothie. "What did you do, Shawn?"

Shawn stands up and moves closer to Gus until he is right in front of him. The hairs on the back of Gus' arms still. He scans his surrounding, even though there is no one but them in the office.

With strange, bright eyes, Shawn slowly tells him, "Remember fourteen years ago, I joined the Police Academy in Baltimore and later worked for BPD, then transferred to Chicago PD to do undercover work?"

Gus slowly nods, his eyes wide. "You sent nice postcards. From New York City, Boston, Dallas, Miami, Seattle. . ."

"I was undercover the entire time in Chicago to infiltrate Blood Brotherhood." A pause, and Shawn internally curses Agent Kate Jones for telling more than she should have about Castro. "My undercover name was Ricardo Castro."

"The enforcer guy who hang a guy seventy feet up above ground and drop them if he didn't like them?" Gus throws his hands out, backing away from Shawn. "Holy crap, Shawn. What. The. Fuck."

Gus scrutinizes his best friend. Sure, he can kind of look like Castro in the blurry photo if he grows a thick beard and maybe look more tough. But this is _Shawn._

"I did hurt people while undercover. Castro started out as a low level drug dealer." Shawn raises his index finger. One finger. For one job. "Then I was a bodyguard for an inner circle member. Not one of those obvious ones, but an undercover one. Which is ironic."

"I'm astounded you even know what that word ironic means."

"Thank you, Mr. Vocab." Shawn raises a second finger. "That's two jobs. I actually stop an assassination attempt while being a bodyguard, so they promote me to an assistant for an Associate. Associate are like personal assistants to the inner circle members. They do tasks for them." He shows Gus three fingers.

"Third job. But how did you become inner circle?"

"CPD busted them and several other Associates. The inner members promoted several lower level members to Associates. One of them was me. As an Associate, I was able to sabotage certain things and know certain information. I rounded out some genuine traitors, obvious troublemakers. Made myself indispensable to the Brotherhood. Set up the previous Enforcer for an arrest. That was how I became the Enforcer." He opens his thumb. "That is the five jobs that was plainly illegal."

Gus nods, slowly taking it all in. Then realization dawns on his face, like a bulb of light flicking on. "Wait, what about the job you took that might have broken international law?"

"If I tell you, I'll have to kill you." Shawn wiggles his eyebrows when Gus doesn't seem to get it. "My name is Spencer, Shawn Spencer." He uses his fingers to make a finger gun, aiming at the ceiling. James Bond pose.

"Dudeeeeeee," Gus drags out, brown eyes sparkling with eagerness. "Were there any cool gadgets? Please tell me they figured out to make that bulletproof Aston Martin. Or that laser!"

Shawn mimics a zipper being zipped across his mouth. Then he wanders to his desk for the pineapple smoothie.

"Hey, did they take you to Area 51?"

Shawn shakes his head, sipping away at the straw. He whines, "Come on, aliens again? We proved that there is no such thing as aliens last time."

"But." Gus raises a brow. "There is nothing to say there aren't aliens there." Gus smirks at him. Then suddenly, he frowns. "Wait, Castro died in that warehouse in 2002. How did you make it out?"

Shawn's mind quickly slips away to a time that happened ten years ago. His smile quickly drops, and voice turns dead. "We escaped."


	7. Into the Past

**A/N: Hello? Anyone out here? It seems very quiet and lonely here. Like I'm just singing or playing or whatever before an empty audience. It's a little odd.**

VII.

March 21, 2002

 _He screams. The Sanchez brothers are proficient at making their victims feel pain. But Ricardo Castro is famous, or rather infamous, for making elaborate death or torture traps to his enemies. It makes him_ feared _. Innocent questions can turn out to be armor-piercing interrogation tactics, and anything said can be used. If Castro's victim does not talk, Castro may start removing teeth._

 _This time, Ricardo Castro could only set the terms before the Sanchez brothers do some incredibly damaging injuries. He inspects coldly around this too familiar warehouse. A major percentage of the men in here are loyal to Sanchez, first and foremost. They would obey Castro, or any other members of the inner circle, second._

 _Besides, he is not even certain his own men would consciously betray the Brotherhood._

 _The crying man in the rusty lawn chair, tied by barbed wire, is unrecognizable. Shawn has never really believed in God, but he finds himself praying for a damn miracle. He'll take one from the devil himself for all he cares. It has been five minutes since this undercover cop, formerly Detective Sam Mosby of Olympia Police Department in Oregon, missed his check-in._

 _They got to know something is wrong, he hopes. They have to know. They'll send uniforms to check it out._

" _Pig," spits Miguel, rolling up his sleeve up. His Armani suit jacket lays discarded on the floor. He could hardly care, though. With a jagged, old nail, he takes ahold of a hammer. He carefully places the nail in the center of Sam's foot._

 _His brother, Jose, forces the leg on top of the work table. To make it sit above the block of wood. Aligned._

 _The Detective can only do so much to resist, but resist, he does with his dwindling supply of strength and energy._

 _He raises the hammer a foot above the nail. "One of your brothers killed my cousin Jack. You'll pay for it, pig." Then Miguel slams the hammer down._


	8. Stormtrooper

VIII.

 _July 19, 2012_

It's 10 o'clock at night. However, Gus and Shawn are in the car, watching an seedy alley. Shawn casually snacks on popcorn while Gus chews on dried plums. There's a closed convenience store with an ATM machine across the street from the alley.

"Why are we here?"

"Waiting for a drug dealer," answers Shawn. He spies a dark sedan flashing its lights on in the alley. A dirty blonde man and a scarred-face black guy in a suit steps out. That's definitely them.

"What?" shrieks Gus, his hand already reaching for his car key. "No, Shawn!"

"Gus, this is the closest drug dealer to both Alyssa and Kristy's place that sells very pure heroin. Part of the Eagle Syndicate. Besides, we don't actually need to talk to them. I want to look at his customers."

"You really need to look at them?" Gus gestures at the swarm of sniffling drug addicts hovering near the dumpster. All of them look pathetic with their dirty clothes hanging from their limbs A few of them are twitchy, and Shawn can easily pick out the newer drug addicts.

Wincing, he sighs. "Good point. How soon can we get to the airport?" He briefly turns on his phone screen.

"Which one?"

"Santa Barbara."

xPx

Holding a cardboard he found in the back of Gus' Echo, Shawn leans against the rails in the arrivals section of the airport. He grins and in permanent marker, writes: **WELCOME TO CALI, STORMTROOPER!** Then he holds it up as the arriving passengers file out.

"Wait, why Stormtrooper?"

"I'll tell you later, but I'm Peashooter." Shawn sees the detective before the detective sees them. He has gotten older, Shawn realizes with a stabbing pain in his heart. Of course, it has been a decade since he has seen him. His hair has turn into a smooth gray, despite being only in his late forties. He surprisingly wears a black polyester jacket with sweatpants.

"Peashooter! Surprised to find you picking me up!" greets Detective Sam Mosby of the Chicago Police Department. To Shawn's befuddlement, the older detective throws his arms around his former partner. "It has been ten years."

Shawn is first to pull away, discreetly checking his former partner for old scars. He doesn't find any visible ones. He turns to Gus, clearing his throat, "Gus, this is Sam Mosby. Sam, this is—"

"Burton Guster!" finishes Sam, reaching out for a handshake. "I wasn't born yesterday. I heard the stories from Shawn about your childhood. You two had some wild times. Nice to finally meet the man."

Gus smiles politely. "I think I heard about one or two stories about you, Shawn, and Crackshot in Dallas."

He guffaws. "Yeah, Peashooter and I couldn't stand our coworker, so we drove all the way from Chicago to Dallas just to participate in this gun shooting contest. We picked up Crackshot the hitchhiker in Iowa and entered the contest. He was so pissed when we edge him out of every category!"

"So where are you staying while you're here?" Shawn shoves the cardboard under his armpit.

"Hotel a few miles from the station. I think if you two can drop me off at the station, that would be great."

"Shawn!" tells Gus. "You promised I can get some sleep after this!"

"Maybe in an hour," Shawn pleas.

Climbing into the Echo, Gus shakes his head. "How did I even get into this? Just a little look and then we end up being chased by some bad guy! How do you always get into trouble, Shawn?"

"I'm the one who gets into trouble?" Shawn says, clearly offended. He closes the navigator door and buckles his seatbelt.

"Yes, Shawn." A sudden voice has both Gus and Shawn turning their heads. He shoves his black suitcase onto the backseat of the Echo and folds himself in. Sam Mosby is a taller man than most, not easily able to sit himself into a small car such as the Blueberry.

"Sam, you Benjamin Arnold!"

"It's Benedict Arnold," Gus and Sam correct together.

"I heard it both ways."

Gus rolls his eyes, turning on the ignition. "No, you didn't, Shawn."


	9. Victim Zero

IX.

May 14, 1996

" _How did I even get into this?" mutters Shawn, staring at the swarms of police cars surrounding the amusement park. It's not everyday the park manager ends up being brutally murdered in his own office._

 _So now everyone who was on shift or signed in is being dragged down to the station for questioning. The park itself is closed for the day, if not the entire month until the police investigation completes itself._

 _Shawn, who works at the help desk in the entrance area near the manager's, is one of the first ones to he taken for questioning. Which is why he is being escorted into the backseats of a squad car._

 _Feels like deja vu all over again._

 _In all the wrong ways._

 _It's been almost a year since he left Santa Barbara. A year of hopping from place to place, never staying too long in a single place. Never letting roots settle in. Taking the odd jobs here and there. Crashing at a stranger's house or maybe wandering through a city at night._

 _He took so many jobs since he left. He was a taxi driver for a day in Los Angeles. A bartender for two weeks in San Francisco. A grape picker for an hour in Sonoma. A ski operator for a month in Nevada. A cowboy in rural Nebraska. A spanish translator in Austin. A busboy in Alabama. A rice farmer in South Carolina. A blackjack dealer in Atlanta. A beach server in Miami. Roller coaster ticket counter in North Carolina. Museum guide in Washington DC. Then he wanders all the way to Maryland._

 _Specifically, Baltimore._

 _This job, this 13th job. . . Lucky number 13. Of course, there has to be a murder. Completely shuts down Shawn's attempt to be the spinning teacup operator. A little more cash in that job, and it looks more fun. Especially to make all those people scream._

 _As an officer guides him into an interrogation room, Shawn catches a few interesting details before the door closes on him. First, Mad Johnny, who operates the water ride, curses madly at the officers holding his cuffed limbs. Second, Mr. Lee with his graying hair and nervous gaze has some odd black specks of something in his nails despite working in administration. He is usually kept clean. He twitches a little by a cop who is taking down his statement at her desk. It's quite subtle._

 _At another desk, Emily Pilkington ruins her mascara. Crying hysterically as she hiccups her way through her statement, she sends the police officer a few feet away from her in a desperate attempt to avoid her runny nose. The officer hands her a bunch of tissues, his nose turning up in horror._

 _Shawn seats himself at one side of the table and waits. It takes twenty-four minutes before two detectives enter the room and sit on the opposite side of the table. Staring him down._

 _He's beginning to feel like a suspect now, though it isn't the same intense stare his father gave him when he asked Shawn whether or not he ate all the candies in the Christmas chocolate box._

" _Shawn Spencer, correct?" asks a greying detective, flipping through a file. Shawn immediately recognizes his employment file he submitted to the amusement park. The other one, who must be the junior partner, holds a pen above his tiny notepad. He's already writing stuff down._

 _Shawn eyes it, and it looks as if the junior detective is writing out Shawn's name from the way the pencil's moving._

 _Stern but kind eyes emerge from the older detective, and Shawn knows instantly that this must be how all the suspects get suckered into a confession. He makes them feel as if he completely and wholeheartedly understands them. The detective reaches across the table and introduces himself, "I am Head Detective Michael Holmes and this is junior detective Emerson Hayden. We are here to ask you a few questions. Can you please recount what happened earlier in the morning? Since you have arrived for your shift."_

 _Shawn doesn't need to go far to dig through the back of his mind. Little did the two detectives know, he has been thinking backwards and forwards of all the people who could have murdered the park manager. Shawn has a good hunch on who did it. Still, he entertains them anyway._

 _Leaning back in his chair, he says, "I got dropped off by Emily Pilkington, who is cute and works in the northside cafe. Mason and Jeremy were dropped off with me while Emily went around to find parking. I checked into my station four minutes before my shift began. Thirty minutes in my shift, I heard two gunshots coming from the office upstairs. Johnny was running down the only staircase while Mason and I ran up to see the park manager lying in a pool of his blood on the floor. Mason went for help while I looked at the park manager. He couldn't be revived. He was clearly dead when I saw that bullet hole in his head."_

" _You don't seem too upset," notices Detective Hayden. He stares long and hard at Shawn. It's not the same confident look Detective Holmes can muster up._

 _Shawn scoffs. "Look, I didn't know that guy that well and nothing really beats seeing a girl commit suicide by jumping off the 4th floor window at an mental asylum back in my childhood. She gave me nightmares for years."_

 _The detectives exchange a glance._

 _He leans towards the detective. "This guy, Mr. Stein, was beaten first, went unconscious, and then was shot twice by a small caliber gun. Maybe 9 millimeters. Close ranged."_

" _You are not really helping yourself, Mr. Spencer," comments the junior detective._

" _My dad was a cop and detective. Taught me everything he knows since I was born," Shawn calmly tells them. "Give me any case, and I'll have it solved faster than any of your detectives could. And by the way, Johnny may be always pissed but he would never hurt Mr. Stein when he's lined up for a promotion to manager. It was his ticket to Florida. It's Mr. Lee who killed Mr. Stein. You should check his hands for gunpowder residue."_


	10. An Exact Portion

X.

 _July 20, 2012_

"Why are we here, Shawn? I plan to sleep tonight. You know I have a route I need to finish tomorrow," scolds Gus, glaring at his best friend. "You know, my actual daytime job?"

"Relax, Woody is here too. He's at work and he didn't sleep."

Somehow not looking bleary-eyed or on the verge of sleep, Woody pops a few pretzels into his mouth. He raises a finger at Shawn, as if to say hold that thought. After swallowing down the pretzels, he explains, "I actually slept since 5:30 to midnight. Detective Mosby here called me." He holds out a few pretzels to Gus, who gingerly takes one and snacks.

Gus nods in appreciation. "This is pretty good. Salty and sweet."

"I know, right?" Woody smiles.

Shawn looks at the partially opened drawer. It almost appears to be. . . With long strides, Shawn goes off and pulls the drawer. Blanket, pillow, and a teddy bear. "Woody, you sleep in here?" he rhetorically asks, a touch incredulous in his voice.

"It is actually very comfortable. You should try it."

Almost frantically wiping down his hands on his pants, Gus eyes the coroner with concern and thinly disguised horror. "I think I'm good, Woody. Thanks."

Woody slips on blue gloves with a defining snap and then pulls the sheet off the pale, bloodless face of Alyssa Swanson, once known as Alyssa Sanchez. "Toxicology reports came back thirty minutes ago."

"That fast?" wonders Gus. "We always had to wait a lot longer."

"Kate Jones probably listed it as a priority test. Plus, it looks like it has the federal lab seal on it," says Sam, squinting at Woody's computer screen. He pulls away. "Yep, I'm right."

"Good eye, Detective Mosby." Woody grins. He scrolls down the report, mouse clicking away. "They analyzed her blood, hair, and such to see what was in there. She had a high dosage of heroin right before she died. That is what killed her."

"How high?"

"About 12 grams," replied Woody, scrolling through the report. "It doesn't help that she has benzodiazepines and alcohol and some ketamine in her system."

"Roommate said they went clubbing the night before," points out Sam, pacing back and forth. "That is definitely where she might have picked up alcohol and ketamine. Was she prescribed benzodiazepines?"

"Not sure, but report did say the amount present was three times above the recommended dosage of 10 milligrams," says Woody. "I'll forward the full report to you."

"Did you get the report on Kristy?"

Woody winks. "Arrived earlier today." He pulls out a clipboard from the table behind him. "Kristy Sanchez. In good health before she died. Approximately 12.1 grams in her system. A derivative of benzodiazepine called Valium was in her system, recently taken prior to her death. Very high amount."

"Just that?" questions Sam.

"What is this benzene-pine thing for?"

"Benzodiazepine," corrects Gus.

"I heard it both ways."

"No, you didn't." A pause. "Benzodiazepine has several usages. Alcohol withdrawal treatment, anxiety treatment, seizures. It is prescription drug. Can't be found over the counter," Gus informs, clearly tapping into his in-depth and great pharmaceutical knowledge. "I heard that Central Coast Pharmaceuticals are working on making a genetic version of it."

"Street name is Benzo, Shawn," murmurs Sam, briefly stopping his pacing. He snaps his fingers a few times in thought. "It's a drug some addicts like to abuse and overdose on."

Shawn opens his mouth when a lightbulb finally goes off in his head. Benzo. He has heard that a few times in the past. "Ohh. I think I heard of that." He thinks back to the crime scene. "Both victims don't use illicit drugs, right? They're clean."

"Other than the ketamine found in Alyssa, but could be explained that someone slipped something into her drink. Alyssa's liver is still in good condition, and Kristy doesn't show any sign of any drug use." A pause. "I examined the contents of their stomach. They both ate food that was mixed in with crushed Valium pills. The pills were 10 milligrams, judging from the dye found."

"We can reasonably conclude neither victims were heroin users. Besides, 12 grams? What is the heroin like, Woody?" Sam resumes his pacing.

"High quality. About seventy percent heroin mixed in with sugar, according to analysis of the syringe." Woody clicks around his computer.

"Overkill," commentator Sam, shaking his head. "Benzo mixed with heroin. The killer really wanted these two to die."

Shawn thinks back to the alley. He remembers the drug addicts huddling around each other. A few of them are holding twenties. "I sense something!" He reaches for his temple. "Both Kristy and Alyssa took in the same dosage and value of heroin. 12.1 grams. Two thousand and four hundred dollars worth." He makes one further jump. "And the heroin comes from the Eagle Syndicate."


	11. Missing Two Legs

**bienvenu: Thank you for the warm welcome! And yes, this is like really new, but it happens when you binge and skip your way through Psych on Amazon Prime, lololol.**

XI.

 _July 20, 2012_

Once Shawn overdramatically finishes telling about his vision about the Eagle Syndicate having something to do with the drugs in the victims in the conference room at exactly 10 o'clock in the morning, Sam gestures to him and says, "Shawn, we need to talk." Behind him, Lassie and Jules give strange looks but do not question any further. Conner's at the desk, frantically writing everything down with his pen shaking badly. Patrick Zhang and Kate Jones has completely missed Shawn's awesome psychic vision because the former has another case down in San Diego while the latter is busy with a personal issue with her little brother.

"Okay?" Shawn drawls out, a tiny bit of confusion and anxiety wavering his voice. Nevertheless, he chooses to follow the older man. Maybe it might be serious, Shawn thinks.

"Not here."

xPx

"You dragged me all the way to the beach just to talk?" Shawn groans when sand seeps into his Nike shoes. Throwing up his hands in frustration and glaring at Sam's back, he whines, "Why are we out here for anyway?"

"It's about Castro," the detective says.

Shawn spins his head so fast that he might have gotten whiplash. Guarded with his gaze slowly scanning his ex-partner for hints of what he might ask or say, he slowly asks, "What about Castro?"

With eyes focused on Shawn, Sam interrogates, "Have you told anyone about Castro?"

Shawn gives him an arched eyebrow.

"Other than Gus," he amends.

Shawn shakes his head. "No, I didn't. You want to tell me what this is about? Or do I need to monkey dance for you?"

"I thought that was called the psychic dance," quips Chicago's detective.

Shawn is taken aback. He shakes his head and then feels the beginnings of headache. "Okay, first, you got off the airplane without a suit. Now you are cracking jokes, Sam? Who are you?"

He is beginning to think that Sam has been more affected by what happened in Chicago all those years ago. Affected enough to create a 180 degree spin in personality.

"Stalling and avoiding the question," says Sam, wagging his finger at Shawn. "But in the last ten years, I have gained a sense of humor according to my _ex-wife_ when it was too late for our marriage to be saved. My current wife seems to appreciate it. I also made up a couple bad leg jokes. Oh, and by the way, Shawn? I lost them all." With more glee than he should possess, he lifts his sweatpants just slightly to reveal the prosthetic legs. In the right light, they might look real.

Shawn glances away, his face darkening. His eyes scan the horizon of the earth. The sea breeze glides by him, and the waves recede for a roaring encore. The beach seems too calm, too pensive for Shawn, for inside, he is raging with the fierce urge to run far away from his old partner.

His ex-partner tsk at him, letting his pants sleeves fall down and covering the fake legs again. "Still beating yourself down about what happened in that warehouse, Peashooter?"

"If we are going to talk about Chicago, I'm leaving," Shawn coldly informs, turning back to inland. His blood freezes upon seeing Sam's gentle eyes, not a sign of anger or sadness in them. Sam's hand quickly presses against Shawn's shoulder, so close to the old bullet hole near his heart.

Shawn can't move, pausing mid-step.

"I've given you enough time to run, Shawn." He adds, "Don't you think I deserve a little bit of your time after all we have been through?"

"If you want to say something, then hurry up and say it," he grimaces, facing the orange sky once more. His eyelids twitch, holding back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"It has been ten years since that happened. I do not live my days and nights in that warehouse, Shawn. Nor do they haunt me anymore. I suggest you do not let it haunt you," he says softly, patting the top of Shawn's shoulder. "And I want you to know that I never blamed you for a moment in that warehouse. It was not your fault."

"I could have done something." The words ghost across the nearly empty beach, fighting against the tremendous roar of the waves before them. "Anything." Words that should have been spoke ten years ago fly right out of Shawn's mouth.

"You did the hardest but also the most correct thing to do, Shawn. It was to stall for time and do nothing." A pause. "I knew what I was getting into when I accepted this case. It was going to be dangerous. Still dangerous. But because you maintained the cover under duress, we _both_ maintained it, it saved our case and the lives of hundreds of agents and people you directly impacted."

The corner of Shawn's eye glisten. He chokes out, "But I still could have. . ."

"What happened is what is, Shawn. We both nearly died to get out of there, but I'm glad of this outcome and the choices we made in there." Sam gently pats at Shawn's shoulder. "But you shouldn't have dived into intelligence afterwards without leaving a note, you know. I was in coma for eight months and when I woke up, there was Fiona saying you ran off to help in Mexico for some top secret mission."

"I did leave a note!" indignantly protest Shawn. Then he thinks back at that note and curses when he just ate Sam's bait. The worm, hook, and all.

" _Sorry, buddy. Have to leave,"_ quotes Sam, whistling. He rubs his stub. "Jesus Christ, Peashooter. It sounds like a breakup text you send to a girlfriend you never really loved."

Shawn's eyes widen. "Wait a second! You have rehearsed all of this before," he accuses.

"Guilty as charged," drawls his ex-partner, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants. "I waited ten years for this. I knew I never blamed you, but I knew that if you even heard I was coming anywhere near you, you would run because you always blamed yourself and was ashamed of what you thought was your biggest failure. Then I heard that the case was coming back in Santa Barbara and knew you were there, so I hopped onto the plane and called you to let you know I was coming. Because as much as you like to run from things, Shawn," he says, moving until he stands right in front of the younger man and staring straight into his eyes, "you always did the right thing when the moment counts."

Silence.

The former detective quickly thinks, grasps onto something else other than the memories of what happened in that warehouse, shakes his head. He wipes away the formed tears. "Ten years and you have not lost your manipulative touch."

"Oh, I hope not. Captain Blacksmith doesn't quite know who keeps on stealing the staplers out of his office. He thinks it's always Head Detective Salvador."

"After all the years?" Laughter chokes out of his mouth. Sam takes one look at Spencer and joins in the bouts of laughter. "This is why that man is not a detective!"

xPx

"But did you tell anyone about Castro?" he asks, walking inland with Shawn.

Shawn sighs. "No, I didn't. What about it?"

"After the time you spent in Mexico," he pauses, emerald eyes darting around to look for any listening ears, "the company never bothered to reverse your redacted status. You search your name through records, and there will be no result. Nothing about the three years you spent undercover for CPD, nothing. Like you never existed."

"What about it?" Shawn kind of suspect that when Carlton Lassiter threw him into an interrogation room and ran tons of background checks, never mentioning once about his gig with the Chicago Police Department.

"If you are planning to revive your old cover or telling anyone about it for this case, you might need to give Bruce a warning." Sam glances away from the noon sun. "Only polite, after all."

"No worries. I'll send him a fruit basket." A pause. "How do you even know Bruce?"

Cocking his head, Sam winks. "That's confidential."

It is slightly disturbing to see Sam winking at him, Shawn decides. Or joking. Or laughing. Or taking things a lot less seriously than before.

But if Sam says it's confidential how he knows Bruce, it means Sam probably worked with Bruce the CIA handler. Or maybe they are talking about two completely different Bruces. That would be awkward.

"What do you think about Kate Jones?" Shawn changes the subject. "She used to be Fiona's old partner in this case."

"She came on two weeks before that big assassination of the inner circle," remembers Sam, eyes glancing back at the waves. "Didn't know her much. Which was still better than what you knew. I miss Fiona a lot. A lot nicer than Kate Jones. Kate only has like an inch of Fiona's social skills, and she isn't playing as aggressive as Fiona in this case."

"Fiona retired?"

"No, she died."

A stilling chillness shivers up Shawn's spine. Glancing hard at the horizon, he casually points out, "Wasn't she like mid-fifties?"

"59 years old. She died back in '08." Sam smiles, lost in thought and memories. "Remember that time she was mad at us for taking all of her black pens and leaving red pens in her jars? The look on her face! That was priceless!"

"Yeah, and she blamed it mostly on me. But we know who really left all those red pens on her desk." Lips curling upwards, Shawn still remembers the shrill screams of horror at the missing black pens. Still, unseeing to his ex-partner, Shawn's heart strums loudly against the buried memories of that warehouse.


	12. The Academy

**A/N: I have determined that I want this to be set after Santabarbaratown 2, where Henry Spencer is still recovering from being shot in the chest. He's doing better now, but he isn't working at SBPD yet.**

XII.

May 16, 1996

 _After his shift and right by the motorcycle he borrowed from Mason's dad, Shawn stops in his tracks as he catches the eye of Head Detective Michael Holmes. He snacks on a particularly large chocolate covered donut in an unmarked car parked two spaces down, not at all looking suspicious. Catching the detective making come-here gestures at him, Shawn finds that he has no choice but to obey._

 _He stops by Holmes' window. "Hello?" Shawn honestly can't fathom why the Head Detective stopped by without the junior detective. Mr. Lee has fully confessed to everything, and the murder of Mr. Stein sensationalize every paper in Baltimore. Plus, it helped BPD immensely when they found gunpowder residue in his fingernails and dress pants._

 _A dark yellow folder smacks against Shawn's chest. Shawn barely has time to grab it before it drops to the ground. "What is this?" He straightens the loose paper, absolutely confused._

 _The detective sips his coffee and reminds, "Mr. Spencer, a few days ago, you said you can solve a crime faster than any of Baltimore's detectives." He pointedly looks at his watch. "Time is slipping by."_

 _Shawn quickly opens the folder, heart pounding eagerly. This is something different about this. Just him and his head. No lurking Dad in the background trying to nudge Shawn in a certain direction._

 _It's a burglary of a well-off home with a staff of three. A husband, a wife, and two teenage daughters live in that home. Shawn examines the crime photos, noticing how some pictures were smashed and others were not. The safe has been emptied and shows no sign of tampering, suggesting it's an inside job. Home security itself was triggered, and police response time was eighteen minutes. Shawn scans through the statements and breezes through the crime scene photos one more time._

 _Then he looks at the detective and answers, "The wife."_

 _Shawn tells himself to never play poker against this detective. There is no obvious tell he can ascertain yet. No clue whether or not Shawn got it right. No hint that the detective is impressed by Shawn._

" _Why?"_

" _The vandalism, the breaking of objects is not random. Pictures that include her husband were destroyed. Look at that TV. This is clearly his TV, judging from the amount of sport decorum he has around the TV stand and his bedroom. Spouses do not sleep with each other, have clearly defined territories. Also, the safe in his office that she cleared probably contained between two thousand dollars to two million, but I'm inclined to say millions. Stacks of hundred dollar bills. A couple of vases in the house look super pricey."_

 _One moment._

 _Then two._

 _The detective breaks into a smile that crinkles his eyes. "Very impressive. It took one of our detectives a week to figure it out, and it was only because the wife tried to deposit a large amount of cash at her local bank. Raised red flags."_

" _How much did she steal?"_

" _1.8 million in cash. All in hundreds." He beckons Shawn. "Get in this car."_

 _xPx_

 _They have been driving for a long, long time, suffering through traffic. Well, it seems longer to Shawn, because he no longer recognizes this part of Baltimore. Not for the first time, he asks, "Where are we going?"_

" _You'll see" is the cryptic answer._

 _The car finally slows down on a less busy street of Baltimore. Shawn glances at a brick building with the American flag waving on a pole. A sign proudly says, Baltimore Police Academy._

" _No way," breathes Shawn, excitement rushing through his veins. He has never thought he would see a police academy in his life. "Why are we here though? Cause I mean, I did have dreams of becoming a cop before, but then I got booked for stealing my dad's car for a dare."_

 _The detective glances curiously at Shawn and turns into a parking lot. "How old were you?"_

" _Seventeen."_

" _There's still hope then."_

 _Inside, Shawn peers as cadets move around in the Academy with ease, obviously belonging there. He ignores the brief stab of longing, instead choosing to watch the administrators milling around with papers in their arms._

" _Detective Holmes?" A secretary gestures them to follow her. They follow the secretary down a neutral-colored hallway and make a few turns. She points into an office. "In here. We've been waiting for you."_

 _The detective and the once-delinquent enter the office. There's a desk in the middle of the room. One side has a middle-aged pale man typing quickly at his computer. "Detective Holmes. Mr. Spencer, I have been waiting for you two." He shakes both of their hands across the desk. "I am Robert Grayson, in charge of admissions here."_

" _What are Mr. Spencer's chances?"_

" _If he wants to join the Academy, he can," replies Mr. Grayson, turning the computer around to show Detective Holmes of Shawn's detective test results. "He scored a perfect on the detective exam when he was fifteen."_

 _Eyes widening, Holmes whistles. "Now that is not something you hear everyday. What about that possible felony on his record when he was underage?"_

" _Does not show up. Yeah, I see that he has been booked. His fingerprints are in the system. But his father never charged grand theft auto against him." The admissions officer's blue eyes gleam steadily at the potential cadet. "Shawn? Would you like to join the Academy?"_


	13. Cutting the Lines

XIII.

 _July 20, 2012_

Circling back to question Alyssa's roommate, Gus and Shawn knock on the apartment door. She opens it slightly, a brand new chain on the door preventing it from opening completely. Sniffling and wiping at her puffy red eyes, Carla Ramsay realizes, "You're the psychic guys."

Shawn nods, his hand flying up to his temple. "Carla, there are some things I want to clear up about your roommate. The spirits are confused on some details. Is this a difficult time to ask you a few questions?"

She closes the door, unlocking the chain. Leaving the door wide open, she moves over to the sofa and sits down. Shawn and Gus follow her in, Shawn closing the front door behind him. They stand around, examining the apartment. It's a little messier than Kristy's apartment, but there is no trace of the police ever being here.

"Carla, the latch and chain on the front door was broken, correct?"

She nods quickly, a finger pushing away the sparkling tears at the corner of her eye. "Yeah, it was broken ever since we moved on. We always planned it having it fixed, but we never got around to it. Now Alyssa has been murdered."

Gus tilts his head curiously at Shawn. "Carla, why do you think it is murder? The police's official report said it was an overdose."

"Aren't you a psychic?" Her voice wavers.

"I'm Shawn Spencer, the psychic. This is Michael Jackson who helps me translate and understand what I see," the pseudo-psychic claims, sounding as sagely and pretentious as possible.

"Look, she doesn't do drugs! The most either of us do is drink and sleeping pills. Mostly me on sleeping pills, cause it's been really weird lately," she blurts out, eyes darting around nervously.

"Describe weird," requests Shawn.

"Alyssa and I go everywhere together. We work for the same place, on the same shift, in the same section. I see some weird person in a black hoodie several times on the way home or at Jamba Juice the last few weeks. She never sees that person, but I _know_ what I saw." She pleas with the psychic detective, begging with her eyes. "You have to believe me."

Shawn places his finger to his temple, psychic stance perfected. "I'm sensing that you never carry the key for the deadbolt lock with you or Alyssa when you got on."

Her mouth drops, her bottom lip shaking. "How did you know that? My God, you really are a psychic. Do you. . . Do you sense her spirit? Alyssa's spirit?"

He solemnly nods. "She says she's at peace and wishes you drink strawberry smoothie in her memory."

Then the floodgates open and Carla begins crying in earnest. "Strawberry smoothie was her favorite!"

xPx

"How do you even know that strawberry smoothie is her favorite?" Gus asks, closing the Echo's driver's door. "I think I got how you knew about the lock cause you looked at the scratches, but that was—"

"Strawberry smoothie is popular at Jamba Juice and I saw an empty cup labeled strawberry in the trash when we snooped around their kitchen." Shawn buckles his seatbelt. "Come on, son."

Gus shakes his head. "So Carla thinks there was a stalker following them for the last few weeks."

"The murderer must had copied their key when they weren't looking, but could not open the deadbolt with a copy of that key, because they never took it out." Shawn raises his nearly empty bottle of water, swirling the remaining liquid. "In the mood for Jamba Juice, Gus?"

Gua grins. "You know I am."

They arrive at the nearest Jamba Juice only to find a familiar unmarked car already parked in front of the store. Lassie and Jules. Shawn quickly steps out of the Blueberry and rushes through the door. Completely ignoring the line, he asks the cashier, "Hey, I am psychic detective Shawn Spencer for the SBPD. Are Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara back there?"

The cashier nods.

Rotating his head and pointing to an empty plastic cup, Shawn glances at the menu. "Can I have a medium pineapple smoothie? Ow!"

The patron waiting in line glares at him, her sharp fingernails pulling away from Shawn's arm. "Wait in line for your turn!"

"But my body demands—"

"Spencer!" bellows Detective Lassiter, looking not a single bit amused. Sam and Agent Jones peek out behind his back. "What are you doing here?"

"We were in the mood for some smoothies!" says Shawn, grinning madly. He dodges another pinch from the lady and quickly moves to the security room in the back.

Gus shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He mutters something about Shawn never waiting in line.

A name tag identifies the girl at the computer as the assistant manager. Jules scans the screens for Alyssa and Carla, her sharp eyes concentrating hard on the slightly blurry footage. The two police detectives chatter about something Shawn isn't quite listening to.

But there. Two weeks before Alyssa died. That Sunday noon, the two girls in sundresses step outside to enjoy the sun. Carla stands up to use the restroom inside of Jamba Juice while Alyssa casually texts on her phone. Someone in a shabby grey hoodie walks right by, a pale hand just flashing out for something shiny off their table. Alyssa does not notice a thing, so engrossed with her phone.

Keys. It has to be.

Same hoodie comes back and casually tosses the keys right under Alyssa's chair. No one notices a thing.

Shawn pulls back and looks at Gus. "Did you pick up the pineapple smoothies?"

"I'm not getting your smoothie, Shawn. You tried cutting the line again!" scolds Gus.

"But I need pineapple!"

"Enough," barks Lassie, glaring at both of them. "O'Hara, you see anyone wearing a black hoodie?"

"Too many," says Jules, shaking her head. "It's impossible to tell anyone apart. When we walked in, I already counted four people who match the roommate's description." She softly adds, "You think there will be less in the summer. . ."

Agent Jones purses her lip. "So we are back to square one then."

"Hey, where's Patrick? Or Conner?" wonders Shawn, dramatically turning his head as if they would appear out of nowhere.

"Agent West is digging through archives for old files that may contain important information. Mr. Zhang is in LA," answers Jules, her eyes never moving away from the screens as it quickly zooms through another Alyssa and Carla visit to Jamba Juice. No creepy grey hoodie this time, but plenty of strange characters in black hoodies.

Shawn catches a quick flash of a tattoo when one of the hoodies lift his sleeve to scratch an itch, nearly out of the camera's eyes. Shawn's heart drops.

He can recognize that tattoo anywhere.


	14. A New Friend

XIV.

June 1, 1996

" _Where are we going?" Shawn asks for the fifth time in this two-hour-long-and-counting car ride. He sits shotgun in Detective Holmes' unmarked vehicle, his finger tapping the outside of his thigh._

 _They have ventured past the city limits, absconding to a road less traveled judging by the poor quality of the rural roads and the number of farm animals he has seen so far. Cow, goat, and some horses. He thinks he has spied some sheeps as well._

 _Finally, just finally, the detective pulls into a gravel parking lot. There's some cars, yes, but Shawn still doesn't understand why the detective deems Shawn's choice of grey sweatpants and hoodie "suitable wear." Shawn watches the detective park the car and push down on the parking brake with his foot._

" _All of your instructors say you're not challenged enough."_

 _He blinks. All of them? Surprised, he questions, "Including the grumpy, perfectionist, and impossible-to-please tactical Instructor Caitlyn Liu?"_

 _Detective Holmes push his sunglasses up his nose, snorting. "Good ol' Kitty will not be satisfied until you have proven your worth in the actual field. She believes that classroom can't replicate what happens in the field." He takes one step out of the car._

" _You call her Kitty?" A playful tone enters Shawn's words._

 _Pulling his foot back into the car and shutting the driver's door, Holmes glares at Shawn. He jabs a threatening finger in Shawn's direction. "Don't get_ any _ideas. You call her Kitty and she will replace your gun with a movie prop and watch you get shot at." A pause. "You impress her enough, and she'll let you use her nickname. After you graduate from the Academy. She's actually very nice."_

" _Sure," drawls Shawn, stopping his finger tapping. "I don't think nice is in her dictionary."_

 _All he remembers are the sore muscles in his butt. He has never thought his butt could_ hurt.

" _Let's go." Holmes finally gets out of the car, the door shutting behind him with a slam. He purposely walks up the little carved out way to the front of a farmhouse. Shawn quickly follows him, wondering what Holmes is trying to do. "She's tough on all of you because the best way to prepare the cadets is to push what they think are their limits."_

 _Shawn takes in his words. Then his eyes flicker over his surroundings, examining the dog bowl by the door and the wind chimes hanging from the gutter._

 _If Holmes was like Henry Spencer, this venture into the rural areas would be some kind of test. Maybe something like entering some sort of house armed with booby traps. But Holmes is nothing like Henry Spencer. At least, that's what Shawn hopes._

 _Holmes knocks on the door, and a weary but smiling woman with graying hair and light blue eyes answers the door. "Hello, Anita."_

" _Mr. Holmes!" She throws a hug around him and pulls back. "And this is. . .?"_

" _Shawn Spencer," finishes Shawn, shaking her hand. He is pleasantly surprised by her firm grip._

 _Anita turns her attention back to Holmes, stepping back to allow Holmes and Shawn into her home. "He's in his study room. I'll bake some cookies, if you are staying for a while. Just finished baking some chicken for tomorrow's potluck."_

 _Out of sheer habit, Shawn's critical eye scans the interior of the farm house. This place is almost isolated, the nearest neighbor maybe a half a mile away. The living room is devoid of personal effects, which strikes Shawn as slightly odd. He, with a small amount of amusement, notes there are only two hats in this room. One on the corner of the dinosaur-sized television box and a sports cap for the NY Giants stuffed under a yarn couch blanket._

 _Once she disappears for the kitchen, he whispers, "So why are we here?"_

 _Holmes beckon Shawn to follow without actually answering the question. He raps a closed door two times. "Greg? It's Detective Holmes."_

 _The door whoosh open. A panting young man with dark hair and sweaty yellow tank top grins broadly. "Mr. Holmes!"_

 _Shawn peeks in. There's an office desk and chair in one corner of the room and a treadmill in another. A rainbow towel hangs from an installed monkey bar in the doorway leading to a bathroom. Holmes steps in, smiling at the man._

 _Maybe twenty or so years old, Shawn guesses._

" _Shawn, this is Greg Stone. He's planning to join the Baltimore Academy next month," says Holmes, sharply cutting into Shawn's thoughts. "Greg, this is Shawn Spencer. He's currently a cadet at Baltimore. He is going to be_ very quiet _while I run through some drills with you." Shawn doesn't miss that emphasis on quiet, knowing it's a subtle order._

 _In the next hour, he has Greg doing all the written practice test about police procedures, situations, critical thinking, and analysis. Quietly observing Greg and his test answers, Shawn doesn't have to be a seer or a genius to realize that Greg is going to be a by-the-book cop and a shoddy detective._

 _xPx_

 _After hearing Greg thank the good detective a few times for his help, even though said detective was mostly drilling him, Shawn watches Holmes in the corner of his eyes. He has an inkling of what Holmes plans for Shawn and Greg, but the question is why this will challenge him._

 _Safely in the unmarked police car, Shawn acknowledges, "I know why you brought me here."_

" _Why?"_

" _You want me to tutor him."_

" _Correct."_

" _Why?"_

 _Then Holmes cracks a smile. "Greg is said to be impossible to teach. His last tutor claimed that this kid is so dumb that he would not recognize the barrel of a gun if it is labeled with arrows pointed at it. I would tutor him myself, if I was just a detective and had less paperwork. So here you are, Shawn."_

" _How is this supposed to challenge me?"_

" _He had five tutors. Four of them graduated from the Academy and are good cops, and couldn't get a single thing through his head. Teach him, Shawn. Teach him, and you will learn."_


	15. Hunting

**A/N: Hi, I'm not dead. However, any story that is newly written by me will not be posted on fanficnet. Any story that has been previously posted will still be updated. I will be updating here and posting/updating on AO3. Thank you.**

XV.

 _July 20, 2012_

"Shawn? Why are we back here?"

Shawn pulls over on Kristy's street. He steps out of the car with Gus and says, "We need to check something out with the apartment manager."

"Why?"

"Gus, don't be the confused puppy who peed in one shoe but not the other."

"It's a valid question, Shawn!"

They walk up the front gate of the apartment complex. Shawn smiles pleasantly at a woman who steps out and grabs the door before it can lock on him. "Whoever staged their deaths probably stalked them for a while. We need a look at their cameras."

"Lassiter and Juliet has already looked through them."

"But they didn't know what to look for."

He finds the apartment manager office and sticks his head past the door. It's a tidy, somewhat small office with file cabinets stuffed against the wall and the curtains parted for a view of the street. A snoring man has his head down on the desk.

Shawn lets himself in, his head turning around and around to see if he can sneak onto the security camera records and videos without the manager noticing. He has one hand on the mouse. . .

Screw it, Shawn thinks. He grabs a heavyweight book off the nearest file cabinet and slam it on the table. The man jump up, banging his knee under the table. Bewildered, he shouts, "What, what, what? What's the emergency?"

"Hi," Shawn greets, sounding more cheerful than he actually is. He gestures to Gus, still smiling at the apartment manager. "My partner and I are interested in a place here." He ignores the annoyed look Gus throws at him. "I am too famous for my own good, local drummer at the bar down the street, you know? Band is called The Nups. Heard of us before?"

The manager runs a hand through his shaggy dark-colored hair, glancing at Gus and then back at Shawn. "Uh, no?"

"It's alright," Shawn says, raising his hand as if waving off overenthusiastic appreciation. "All of the fans can't get enough of this awesome hair. Most of them are ladies but some of the men can't resist either." He underlines his hair, gesturing to it as if it's made of gold.

"He exaggerates," explains Gus, giving the manager a "But what can I do?" look. "He does have a stalker fan who sneaked into our last few apartments. How is your security?"

"Enclosed complex, cameras on every corner and the roof. Some hallways have cameras. Stairs and elevators all have cameras," proudly says the manager, leaning back in his pink office chair. "Closed circuit and we record everything day and night."

"So let's say it wasn't a week later until I realized that my hair comb is missing. Stolen. Can we find the culprit?"

"We store videos up to a month before it gets rewritten."

"Can we see some?" asks Shawn.

xPx

The security room has four screens of camera feeds that switches on rotation every thirty seconds. Shawn quickly scans through the camera angle and then pauses at the camera feed showing the back of the complex where a dog and its owner play catch. Close to where Kristy's killer gained entry via her living room window.

"How many cameras are in the back?"

"Uh, four. One on each corner and two along the back."

"Can you put them all up on the screen?" requests Shawn, watching the speedy dog run back and forth. "Honey, I think our little bruiser would go wonderfully with that pitbull."

Gus looks at him with disgust. "You're cleaning up after them."

The manager pulls up the four camera feeds. The three men follow the dog as it bounds back and forth between two back walls. He nervously asks, "So your dog is Bruiser? What is he? A German Shepard?"

Shawn's eye scans for blind spots. There are exactly three blind spots. The thin area of grass that can't be seen by all four cameras, which could allow an intruder access to the building's wall without being seen. The section along a thin walkway leading around the corner is useless, but the overgrown bushes seriously needs to be trimmed. It's aesthetically unpleasant.

The third blind spot is actually the complex's wall itself. If someone decides to shimmy along the wall, the cameras wouldn't pick them up at all.

"It's a poodle, and it's a she," lies Gus, reaching for his phone out of his back pocket. Keeping an eye on the manager who is still absorbed by the pitbull and the tennis ball, Gus dials a number. He hides the phone behind his back, pretending to be interested in the camera feeds.

Two seconds later, the office phone rings.

"Um, excuse me." The apartment manager swivels out of his chair. He steps past Shawn and Gus, leaving them alone.

Without missing a beat, Shawn hits the keys and pulls up the recordings on the night of Kristy's murder. He speeds through the day, only slowing down when it's dusk.

"Um, hello, my name is Marissa," says Gus in a sickeningly high falsetto. "My girlfriend and I are interested in a single bedroom flat with one bath."

"Dude, you sound horrible." Shawn shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at the camera feed showing bits of the building behind the complex. For three seconds there, two hours before Kristy's presumed time of death, the light from the opposite building disappears as if blocked by something.

Or someone. Definitely living.

He rewinds the footage a bit, noticing that particular light turns on at nine o'clock at night.

"Not all of us can sound like a girl, Shawn," growls Gus, covering the microphone.

Narrowing his eyes, Shawn goes back a day before, exact time. Nothing there. The light of that building, right next to the second floor window, stays constantly on. He goes back a week before Kristy's death. Exact time. Then he fast forwards, watching that light.

Four in the morning, the light is blocked for a few seconds. And a week before that, at three in the morning, that light is blocked again.

Three weeks before, four in the morning. But curiously, that light has also been blocked briefly at eleven o'clock at night. Twice in one night.

Something worth checking out.

"Dude, we gotta go." After resuming the monitors to watch the current feed, he grabs Gus' phone and forcibly ends the call. "I do not sound like a girl."

"Sure you don't, Shawn." Even a dead man can't miss the heavy weight of sarcasm.

xPx

"What are we doing over here? Last time I checked, this is not a place of interest. It's the apartment complex _behind_ Kristy's apartment," complains Gus, bemusedly staring as Shawn glances upwards for something.

Shawn, closing his eyes, moves four feet to the left and then glanced up. He tilts his head at a great oak tree, about five stories tall. Then he looks to light by the second floor window. The light is so close to be blocked by the actual tree trunk, but no nearby branch can possibly block that light for an interval three or four seconds. Not a bird. Not a raccoon. Not a squirrel.

Especially since that certain branch, which would be blocking that light and would also be blocking that window, has been cut several months ago, judging by the wound. Maybe has something to do with killer but most likely not.

He turns to Gus and announces, "I'm climbing this tree."

"Shawn!"

But Shawn quickly himself up on the lowest branch, hugging the trunk as he moves from branch to branch, examining and hunting for clues or signs that _someone_ was here.

He crosses the light on the second floor and frowns. He glances at Kristy's apartment complex, trying to make out her window. Unable to see anything past the trees blocking the view, he moves up another branch.

"Shawn, what do you see?"

"Nothing!"

He spies an unusual deformity two feet up among a bunch of branches. He pulls himself up again and sits on one branch the size of his thigh. Then he examines the branch jutting out a bit with a notch cut nearly perpendicular to it. He pretends to have a sniper rifle in his hand, leaning forward and following the notch's angle.

It sits perfectly pointed at Kristy's living room and kitchen windows, the view going past the trees and leaves on the outer boundaries of this apartment complex. He can recognize those rusty pipes even from here.

He takes one fast look around to see if there's anything else out of the usual and deems there is not. Climbing down the tree carefully, he passes the light again and can barely make out the tiny dot that is a camera sitting maybe two hundred feet away.

Shawn moves down to the lowest branch and jumps down. Walking back to the Blueberry, Shawn comments, "Dude, this killer stalked Alyssa and Kristy for at least a month. They were planning to kill them."

"How do you even know that?" Gus climbs into the driver's seat, shuts the door, and pulls out his seatbelt.

Once safely in the navigator's seat, he says, "The killer copied Alyssa's keys at Jamba Juice. They sneaked past the cartel's security detail on Alyssa."

"What do you mean security detail?" Gus turns on the car and pulls away from the parking lot. "Alyssa had a security detail?"

"Cartel guys have some tattoos to identify them sometimes. She had at least three men following her. She didn't know about them, but the killer must have. Sneaked right in when they weren't looking."

"Shawn, how do you even—"

"I know because I set up security for them!" Shawn cuts in. "They didn't change how I structured the undercover security detail. Made it so Castro's girlfriend wouldn't get suspicious or upset cause she was a clean-ish civilian, but she was still a high profile target."

"What about Kristy?"

Shawn easily finds the answer, thinking back to what Ricardo Castro knew about Kristy. Which is practically nothing. "She's not close to the inner circle compared to Alyssa. She wasn't as important. We got to find the inner circle—"

Gus' cell phone shrills out its annoying ringtone of E.T. beeps. Rolling his eyes at Shawn, he hisses, "I can't believe you changed my ringtone!"

"Dude, who wants to hear those bell things?" Shawn shakes head in exasperation. He turns his head to watch the trees quickly pass by in the suburban neighborhood. "It's the most boring and unoriginal ringtone."

"It's Notre-dame de Paris bells! It's a classic sound." One-handedly, he picks up the call. "Hello, Burton Guster here." His peeved expression slowly melts into one of bemusement and then resignment. "Okay, we are on our way."

Shawn watches Gus end the call. "What's going on?"

"Lassiter called. They found a third overdose. We are heading there now." Gus makes a quick u-turn and takes the company car north.

"Lassie called you?" Shawn asks, his surprise completely genuine. Typically, it would be Jules calling Shawn. Or maybe Lassie giving him a one line text saying where Shawn and Gus should be, usually the address of the Psych office or SBPD station. Or maybe Henry Spencer, who manages SBPD consultants, calling them, if he wasn't recovering from being shot by his former friend and temporarily taking a break from the SBPD. Or Buzz.

"I don't think he has forgiven you for putting in salt and pepper instead of sugar in his coffee this morning."

Perking up, Shawn begins snickering.


End file.
